Dolomighty challenge
sightseeing, this is fantasy coming to life.”
As I set off, in trepidation at the thousands of feet of climbing ahead, Oli’s advice rings in my head: “Keep it steady, there will be lots of keen riders speeding past, don’t get pulled along in the excitement or you’ll blow up on the later climbs.”
Slow and steady will be my mantra – not that there was ever any risk I would be racing ahead on this route.
The first of the seven mountain passes, the Campolongo, is a gentle introduction to the climbs in store, at just 3.4 miles long with an average gradient of 6.1%.
As I swing round the bend of the first switchback, I look back over Corvara. The immense backdrop of the mountains overlooking the lush green valley takes my breath away – although I need every breath I can get as I begin my climb.
Before the peloton is splintered by the slopes, I spy stars of the cycling world ahead, from 26-year-old Dutch pro Puck Moonen to Miguel ‘Big Mig’ Indurain. Now I can say I have ridden the Dolomites with the five-time Tour de France winner.
The excitement of the morning carries me up to the stark, rocky plateau of the pass and straight on to the speedy descent, where more experienced riders whoosh past me as I take a
cautious line down the centre of the road.
I realise what a privilege it is to have closed roads for the event, allowing me to take advantage of the full sweep of the bends without fear of coming face-to-face with a vehicle. The only vehicles are support cars, which quickly come to my rescue halfway through when my saddle suddenly slams down. If only a mechanic was on hand when I cycle at home.
As I start to gain some confidence on the descent and settle into the pattern of brake, lean, pedal, brake, of rolling down the sweeping switchbacks, I arrive at the foot of Passo Pordoi, the first of the major climbs of the day, which at 6.2 miles long, reaching a height of 7,346ft, is the highest point in this year’s Giro.
But it is Passo Giau, the penultimate climb, with an average gradient of 9.3% over 6.3 miles, that challenges me to
the core.
As I reach each of the signs counting the 29 switchbacks of this immense climb, I coax myself into making the effort to keep turning the pedals to the next bend. But approaching the halfway point, I see my heart rate rising over 175 on my bike computer, as sweat runs down my face and I feel my body overheating. I know I have to find some shade to cool down, or there is no way I will make it over the top.
Once off the bike, it takes all my willpower to get back on and face the road again, which I can see crawling round the valley, a steady stream of cyclists pulsing upwards.
It is the thought of going home empty-handed, without the beautiful finisher’s medal, handcrafted from crushed hay with a real daisy at its centre – part of the Maratona’s bid to be more sustainable, using local resources
– that propels me to swing my leg over the saddle and begin the grind again, upwards and onwards to the finish.
After all the mountain passes and just 2.5 miles from the finish line, the organisers have thrown in one last sadistic hurdle of the Mur dl Giat.
The Cat Wall is a 1,214ft hill with a punishing 12.4% gradient – lined with early finishers, beer-in-hand, cheering you up the sickening slope.
Every part of my body screams at me to get off and push, but my ego overrules my cramping legs. I lift my bum out of the saddle for one last humongous effort and somehow crawl to the top, my face a mixture of ecstasy and exhaustion. Now all that’s left is to roll over the finish line.
The morning after, I had been expecting to be fit for nothing but lounging in the pool at the Greif – a ski hotel which stays open for summer guests (greif.it). My legs feel surprisingly sprightly, however, and I take advantage of the ski lifts.
As we are whooshed up in the gondola, I see mountain bikers bombing down one of the many trails
cut into the valley below. While riding the Maratona, I had seen several electric mountain bikes buzzing to the top of the tracks, and felt envious of motors magicking them uphill.
Ahead of me as I exit the lift is a glorious panorama, a single cloud bouncing off the mountaintops domineering the valley below.
I spot a group preparing for a hike along the paths that link up the same passes I cycled.
But for me, a seat at the Piz Boe’ Alpine Lodge restaurant (boealpinelounge.it) beckons, for seafood spaghetti with a view of the mountains that had punished me so
much 24 hours earlier.
I somehow crawl to the top, my face a mixture of ecstasy and exhaustion